


pistachio

by focusfixated



Series: to steal light from dawn [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Feeding Kink, Food Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 07:08:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20926160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/focusfixated/pseuds/focusfixated
Summary: “That,” Crowley said, delicately, “was the most depraved and unexpected act of debauchery since Nero invited Petronius to come over for a friendly gathering one evening to help him with his writer’s block.”Or: Crowley makes some ice cream. Aziraphale finds it hard to resist.





	pistachio

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to the anon on tumblr who wanted an extended scene of the briefly alluded-to pistachio ice-cream scene from [sunday morning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20655023), and, as ever, eternal gratitude to [koritsimou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/koritsimou) for catching all my typos & being the most encouraging. 
> 
> this scene fits in chronologically before the events of [to steal light from dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20526467) but all parts can be read as standalone.

\---

“It _does _look rather good,” Aziraphale was saying, leaning over Crowley’s shoulder, watching the rhythmic, clunking churn of their electric ice-cream machine, as it frothed up a fresh batch. “When will it be ready?”

“When I bloody say so,” Crowley huffed, though he didn’t try to shrug Aziraphale off him, content enough to let the angel nose into his business, and into his hair. Aziraphale had recently got himself into the habit of taking the opportunity to kiss the back of Crowley's neck whenever he stood still for longer than a minute. “Have a little patience. Aren’t your sort famous for it? Forbearance and all that lark?”

“_Our_ sort,” Aziraphale corrected, soft and so offhand that it took Crowley a moment to register the words, and when he did he had to concentrate not to fumble and lose a finger to the blitzer. 

They had indeed both shown a great deal of patience, and restraint, over the years. It had taken them a long time to get to where they were now, in this happy moment, standing in their shared kitchen in their cottage by the riverside, sunlight falling kindly on them, merging their shadows into an amorous, amorphous tangle.

It was a modest home, with timber-framed stone walls and Tudor-style dormer windows in black and white, though the white had turned rather brownish with age and the sticky footprints of clematis and wisteria climbers that had come and gone over the years. It was secluded, too – which suited them, loath as they were to draw attention to themselves now – quietly nestled on the banks of the Ardur and extending out into a large, sprawling garden, which pleased Crowley, and with enough room indoors for a wholly indecent number of bookshelves, which pleased Aziraphale.

The kitchen had also been given rather a lot of attention, though with one thing and another they had yet to use it properly. Perhaps it was a kind of uncertainty about the _newness _of it all that led them instead to fall on the comforting familiarity of dining out together, leaning on the ritual they had constructed for themselves, a time and place where concerns about Heaven and Hell faded like the background chatter of patrons in a restaurant, a safe haven in precarious times.

It had been enough, up until recently, to take little treks through London, into twee, upmarket patisseries in Mayfair that served lavender macaroons on finely-patterned china, or into Bethnal Green’s curry houses with their red-paper tablecloths and rich, spicy dhansak, a gourmet trail from West to East that echoed their footsteps across the globe, across history. But these dinner dates with Aziraphale, these stolen moments of peace and pleasure that threaded through their tentative, meandering past, had been akin to scraps thrown to a starving man. Suddenly, it wasn’t enough, any more. Now that Crowley had Aziraphale – _truly _had him, in all the ways that mattered – he didn’t want to watch from the sidelines as Aziraphale satiated his hunger. He wanted to be the cause of it; hunger and satiation both.

“I think it’s done,” Crowley said. The ice cream looked the right shade of pastel green and seemed to match the consistency in the photos from _Delia Online _he'd been following religiously. “If you can bring yourself to wait five more minutes I’ll serve it up.”

Aziraphale kissed Crowley on the neck again before peeling away, sitting himself down in one of the wooden chairs at their kitchen table. It was late in the afternoon, the low-hanging sun stretching far into the room, an end-of-summer orange that gave Aziraphale a warm, coppery glow, angelic inside and out. As Crowley dished the ice-cream out into a porcelain bowl, he smiled to himself, though he hid it behind the swing of his long hair.

As he put it down on the table, Aziraphale honest-to-God applauded, as if Crowley had presented him with an elaborately-concocted exploding tiramisu instead of basic pistachio ice-cream in a bowl. “Oh, _wonderful_, Crowley, my dear, it looks absolutely _delicious_.”

“Try it, first,” Crowley said, wryly, but Aziraphale had already picked up a spoon and tucked into a mouthful, letting out a muffled exclamation as he swallowed.

“Crowley, this is – divine! It’s as good as – oh, what was that sumptuous little parlour? You know the one, they did the desserts for her Majesty’s eightieth. The best ice-cream in Richmond! But this – this gives it a run for its money! Good enough for the _Queen_, I’d say.”

Crowley leaned back against the island in the middle of the kitchen, a cool marble countertop on anthracite cabinets, arms crossed loose over his chest, glowing a little from the praise. He didn’t have a blessed clue what Aziraphale was talking about, but Aziraphale was licking his spoon with relish, so Crowley forgave himself the distraction. Watching Aziraphale eat – or, more specifically, watching Aziraphale enjoy himself with such obvious and uncontained pleasure – always brought out something primal and wanting in Crowley. “It’s good, then?”

Aziraphale paused, spoon between his lips, reddened from the cold and the sweep of his tongue he kept using to lick them. He looked up at Crowley, and there must have been something in Crowley’s gaze, something of the hunger he always felt broiling like hot coals under his skin, because Aziraphale’s cheeks coloured slightly. “It is,” he said.

Crowley leaned forward, compelled suddenly to follow this thread of desire that always simmered softly in him in Aziraphale’s proximity, pulled out of him now by the way the angel looked back at him. “Tell me?”

On the outside, Aziraphale gave every impression of primness and good manners, from the perfectly crisp pleat of his slacks to the loftily upright way he walked, hands clasped behind his back. The rounded softness of his physical form only added to the outside perception, were one a human artist painting religious frescoes during the Renaissance, for example, that angels were as passive and peaceable as very well-behaved clouds.

The truth was – and Crowley felt a hot-slick feeling travel down his spine at the fact he was now privy to the knowledge – Aziraphale was actually an outrageous, filthy flirt when he wanted to be.

Lowering his lashes in a way that wasn’t in the least bit angelic, pure human harlotry in his voice, Aziraphale said, “You could come over here and find out.”

Crowley felt his breath catch in his throat. There was very little other noise around them but the inane, shrill twittering of happy birds through the window, and the hushed, rocky flow of water against the banks at the foot of their garden, which meant he could hear his heart thudding obnoxiously loudly, in a way he’d never noticed happening in London where the cacophony of traffic and voices drowned out all else.

He pushed himself off the island in a slow unfolding of overlong limbs, moving with halting steps to stand beside Aziraphale at the table, aware of the way Aziraphale’s eyes followed his every movement.

“Why don’t you sit—” Aziraphale stopped, swallowed, then pushed his chair back. The legs scraped across the stone floor with a honking screech that made him wince and startle out an embarrassed laugh. “Oh dear,” he said. “Not very suave, I’m afraid.”

“Angel,” Crowley said, suddenly and incomprehensibly turned on by Aziraphale’s soft, awkward blush that started across his cheeks and bloomed so fetchingly down his neck to the bare dip of skin at his throat where he’d deigned to open a button or two in concession to the lingering summer heat. “Do you want me to sit on your lap?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale glanced down at the spread of his thighs, a solid and inviting surface. “I think I’d like that.” He looked up at Crowley, a crease of mischief in his light-scattered eyes. “Wouldn’t you?”

Crowley made a sound in his throat and decided that he very much _would_, so he came closer and lowered himself to sit in the angel’s lap, facing him, arms going around and over his shoulders, legs long enough to find flat-footing against the kitchen floor.

“Good?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yes.” Crowley was warm everywhere Aziraphale was touching him, and his cock was thickening in his jeans from the light ache in his legs at holding himself up, and from the way Aziraphale’s hips hitched up slightly to meet him. He swallowed.

Aziraphale smiled. “Now feed me.”

Crowley’s brain blinked out like a television set, static at the edges zipping inwards to a bright, white _fwip_, and then nothing. Mutely, he took the bowl from Aziraphale’s hands. He stared for a second, but Aziraphale simply blinked, benign and undemanding, back at him. So Crowley took a spoonful, resting the handle carefully in his long fingers, putting it up to Aziraphale’s mouth. The angel’s lips parted, a flash of pink tongue, and he closed them smoothly over the metal curve, sighing contentedly as he did.

“More, please.”

Feeling a little dazed, Crowley did as he was told. The next spoonful was much fuller, whether on purpose or not, Crowley didn’t have the current capacity to say, but Aziraphale opened his mouth obediently anyway, wider this time. He closed his lips around the spoon, heaped too high, and the ice-cream spilled out of the corners of his mouth, dripping a sticky trail down his chin, and he made a muffled sound as he vainly tried to swallow it all.

“Jesus,” Crowley said, blasphemously, and promptly dropped the spoon.

Aziraphale’s eyes were fixed on him, mouth and chin a sticky, glistening mess. “More,” he said again, breathless.

“I don’t—” Crowley said, helplessly. The spoon had clattered away under the sink and Aziraphale was making minute, hitching movements with his hips against Crowley’s that made him extremely unwilling to move away.

He put his fingers in the bowl. He glanced up, a flicker towards Aziraphale. Aziraphale nodded. Crowley sank his hand down into the silken cold until his skin was numb, then, tremblingly, fingers dripping, he went up to Aziraphale’s mouth, pushing into velvet heat.

He felt it in his fucking spine, as Aziraphale sucked on him, lips stretched wide, unable to close properly around the intrusion, tongue sliding and sticky into the gaps between Crowley’s knuckles, the contracting sensation of Aziraphale’s mouth tightening as he swallowed.

Crowley crooked his fingers to push down against Aziraphale’s tongue, and Aziraphale moaned, sucking him in deeper, until Crowley’s hand was shoved between his lips to the knuckle, spit sliding from the corners of Aziraphale’s mouth, down Crowley’s wrist in a filthy mess. “Is – is this o-okay?” Crowley asked, voice strained.

Aziraphale nodded, though his movement was arrested by Crowley’s fingers in his mouth, pinned there for the moment, and he let out a high, keening whimper, squirming in his chair and grinding his hips more purposefully now into Crowley’s.

With an answering, desperate sound, Crowley shoved his fingers deeper, pressing back against Aziraphale’s tongue, wanting, obscenely, unfathomably, to go further, all the way in, to feel him from the inside. Aziraphale tried to swallow around him, but then he coughed with a spluttering, choking sound, and Crowley jerked his hand away.

“Sorry, s-sorry, angel, sorry—”

“These confounded corporations,” Aziraphale said, and his voice was raw, lips red and swollen, eyelashes sparkling wet, eyes wide and dark. “They have their limits, alas.”

Crowley went to kiss him, an apology in the gentle, rhythmic press of his mouth, free hand sweeping to tuck under Aziraphale’s jaw, covering them both in sticky-wet saliva and streaks of ice-cream, smudging and smearing them with wandering fingerprints.

And then, without warning, Aziraphale pulled back and hoisted Crowley up from under his legs. Crowley yelped and tried to keep a hold of his balance and his sanity as Aziraphale lifted him bodily to drop him down on the edge of the marble-top island in the middle of their kitchen, before swiping the bowl Crowley still held and setting it aside, pushing back at his shoulders to lie him down.

Shoulder-blades pinned against the cold marble, legs dangling to the floor and toes just brushing the stone, giving him no purchase or place to press up from, Crowley lay, shivering, back arched as he waited. He heard the click of porcelain on marble near his side, and the beat of Aziraphale’s breath, and then hands were on him, rough-edged and demanding, tugging his shirt up and under his armpits, scrabbling with his buttons and unzipping his jeans, tugging them underneath his arse, the sweat-clammy friction of Crowley’s skin refusing to let him peel the tight denim down any further, but still just enough to free his cock, letting it spring back, swollen hard, up against his lower belly.

Crowley had one dazed, scattered moment to wonder what Aziraphale was about to do and then Aziraphale was leaning over him, kissing his neck, pushing his nose up into Crowley’s hair, tacky-soft lips against his skin, all the way to his ear, to whisper, “I’m going to eat the rest of this off you, now.”

“You _what_,” Crowley said, and he raised his head a fraction to look down at Aziraphale now beaming at him, picking the bowl up again. “Angel, it’ll be all melted by now.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said happily. “That makes it much easier.”

“Makes what—” Crowley started to say, and then a sharp gasp ripped from his throat as Aziraphale tilted the bowl to drip a cold stream right onto his chest, following it immediately with his warm-wet mouth, licking and sucking his way from one nipple to the other, across Crowley’s sternum, kissing and suckling at the flesh just above where his heart thudded asynchronously and confounded, the sensations on his skin a flare of hot and cold, like a red-and-blue heatmap on the blink.

Aziraphale hummed, licking his lips, then dripped more of that damned ice-cream onto Crowley, this time into the gentle concave slope of his belly where it smoothed down from his abdomen, and Crowley let out another involuntary sound, a harsh breath tailing off into a whine as it trickled coolly over his skin, pooling into his navel, some of it dripping down over the curve of his hips to mingle with his sweat.

This time, Aziraphale insinuated himself between Crowley’s thighs, leaning up and over to reach him, tantalisingly close to where Crowley’s cock lay hard and aching, but ignoring it in favour of pressing his mouth down again to Crowley’s belly, eating up the melted remnants of the dessert, making the kind of obscene slurping noises and self-satisfied sounds of pleasure that, had he dared to make them during one of their many afternoons dining at The Ritz, would certainly have had the other diners agog with scandalised stupefaction – _and_ possibly arousal, if the secret filthy depravity of the repressed upper classes Crowley had taken great demonic advantage of in prior temptations was anything to go by.

Aziraphale, apparently as depraved as the rest of them, chose that moment to drip a cold trickle of ice-cream directly onto Crowley’s cock, and Crowley cried out loud. “Oh_god_, oh, _please_, a-angel, for satan’s _sake_—” He arched, toes pointed down and scrabbling, barely brushing the floor, arms bowed back to grab the ledge of the counter-top behind him, cock leaking a slow pulse of sticky liquid, filthy now where it mixed with the melted ice-cream, hot and cold setting his nerves alight.

When Aziraphale set his mouth to it, warm and open against Crowley’s prick, Crowley let out a hiss, the deflation of all the breath left in his body, useless to him so long as Aziraphale wasn’t letting him move. “Angel,” he said, voice high and strained. “Please.”

“Yes?” Aziraphale’s tongue flickered out, licking along the length, a light, teasing pressure.

“Can you – do – ss_something_?”

Aziraphale’s interpretation of Crowley’s request, wilful and difficult and enraging, was to kiss up to the tip of Crowley’s cock, then back down again, sucking away the sweet remnants of ice-cream, kitten-licks over the blood-hot, soft-skinned surface, apparently cruelly determined not to take any part of the damned thing properly into his mouth – which Crowley wanted him to do, _very_ badly, but didn’t currently have the verbal ability to ask for. Also, he wasn’t sure at what point in a relationship it was polite or appropriate to ask one’s lover if one could please just go ahead and fuck their extraordinarily angelic mouth with unrestrained, demonic abandon. Six thousand years of complicated dancing around what would or would not be frowned upon – not to mention the significant consequences of asking questions Crowley had already experienced, thank you very much – had left Crowley with a somewhat nervous disposition when it came to making requests.

Still. Aziraphale knew him well enough. He bloody well should, after six thousand years. “Darling,” the angel murmured, and his breath was warm and damp in the crease of Crowley’s groin, where his thighs were tense and trembling. “I would very much like to fuck you.”

“I – _yes_,” was all Crowley could string together, cock twitching as he flooded with a bone-deep heat.

Aziraphale unbuttoned his own trousers, pushing them down to his thighs, waistband tight around the soft flesh as he spread his legs and took a hold of his cock, other hand tapping at Crowley’s legs for him to raise them up to where he was lying on the island, bending him at the knee and planting his heels at his arse. Then Aziraphale pushed the head of his cock between Crowley’s exposed cheeks, the sticky-wet head sliding between them with filthy insistence, seeking.

“_Oh_,” Aziraphale said, eyes closing for a beat.

“_Aziraphale_,” Crowley whined, arching and trying to spread his legs wider, unable to with his blasted jeans still on, pulled down only just mid-thigh, somehow leaving him feeling more exposed for the parts of him that were on display, there for Aziraphale to access, to take, to fill. “P-please.”

Aziraphale took a short, deep breath in. Then he reached across Crowley for the brand new bottle of olive oil that was sitting there, unassuming and innocent enough, apparently also about to be defiled for this blasphemous baptism of their brand-new kitchen. With his fingers slick and dripping, Aziraphale sank one into Crowley’s hole, drawing a yelp from him as the protrusion breached him, and twisted.

After several minutes of panting and absolutely obscene noises that were usually associated with the fondling of particularly viscous foodstuffs and therefore not _entirely _out of place for the kitchen table but still arguably inappropriate, Aziraphale was three fingers deep in Crowley’s hole and screwing in deeper, crooking and wiggling in there and pressing up against Crowley’s prostate in a way that had him bucking and writhing, sweat and oil and ice-cream dripping from him in a truly unholy mess.

“Enough,” Crowley gasped, and then moaned as Aziraphale’s fingers slipped from him, catching at the rim. “Enough, e-enough, I’m – _fffuck_ – I’m r-ready.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale said, fondly, as he kissed the inside of Crowley’s knee with a ridiculous tenderness, a prim and chaste peck of his lips, before thoroughly un-chastely pushing the blunt head of his cock up against Crowley’s stretched-out hole.

“Oh, f-_fuck_ – I’m not – _I’m_—” Crowley sobbed. He wasn’t going to last. All this business with the ice-cream and the contrasting sensations and Aziraphale’s teasing mouth and his relentless fingers wrecking Crowley from the inside out had brought him to the edge already, and he was one stray brush against his cock away from spilling over. “A-angel, I’m so – so c-close, _please_.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, strained, and he pushed forward, sliding the rest of the way in, and as soon as Crowley felt the breach, he was coming with a wail, unavoidable, arching and squeezing around Aziraphale’s prick inside him, eyes rolled back and cock spilling, the wet bloom of it spreading still more mess onto his belly.

“God,” Crowley whispered, eyes turned up to the heavens, and then, looking down at Aziraphale, angelic and radiant but sweat-soaked and lust-blown and ever so human, he said, “Keep going – Aziraphale, d-don’t stop, don’t—”

And Aziraphale didn’t stop, fucking hard and deep into Crowley, pulling him in by the hips with a groan and grinding against his arse, nailing Crowley down with his cock, seeking the angle that slammed up against Crowley’s prostrate, sparks flying like wildly careening stars behind his eyes, letting out whimpering _oh, oh, oh_ sounds as Aziraphale sped up, a sharp-tangled edge of something building deep inside Crowley, wanting, needing—

“Darling, oh, _yes_, yes, you feel so good, you’re so _good_ – I’m going to—”

“Yes_ss_, A-Aziraphale, _p-please_, give it – give it to me—”

“Crowley, I—” Aziraphale’s words were bitten off as he came, spilling hotly, thrusting with a groan two or three times before slowing, head bowed between the tight pinch of Crowley’s trapped knees, red lines bitten into his thighs from his impossible jeans pulled taut. After a beat, the only sound being their ragged, unsteady and unsure breathing, Aziraphale pulled out, gently, holding the base of his cock. Crowley whined, soft in the back of his throat, closing his eyes as he felt the expanse of his body re-knitting, as if his joints had been dislocated and his skin all flayed by the soundly fantastic fucking he’d received, taking stock of just how much of a mess Aziraphale had made of him.

Crowley leaned up to his elbows. Aziraphale was still leaning his forehead against Crowley’s knee. “That,” Crowley said, delicately, “was the most depraved and unexpected act of debauchery since Nero invited Petronius to come over for a friendly gathering one evening to help him with his writer’s block.”

Aziraphale chuckled, and looked up at Crowley, sweat-damp curls flopping with a kind of satisfied lassitude over his sweetly crinkled eyes. “I’m afraid we _have_ made rather a mess.”

“_We_? Angel, I would like to remind you this was entirely your idea.”

“Well, yes, but.” Aziraphale bit his lip, troubled suddenly, and it was like a cloud passing over the face of the sun, immediately dampening joy and lightness, and it made something in Crowley instinctively twang, a pull at something he might have called heart-strings if he had anything practically resembling a regular heart. “But it was – enjoyable, wasn’t it?”

Crowley sat up unsteadily, arse sliding in a greasy pool of oil and come, his own semen drying scratchily on his belly, sticky in every crook and fold from that blasted ice-cream, disgusting in every respect, and, frankly, extremely pleased about it. “Aziraphale, don’t _fret_. Of course it was.”

“You would _say _so, otherwise, wouldn’t you?”

“I can’t imagine you wanting anything I wouldn’t let you have,” Crowley said, the honesty slipping from him, a bare confession he hadn’t expected to make – but here he was, brazenly displaying the marks of Aziraphale’s pleasure, and he couldn’t imagine any eventuality where he would say no, so long as Aziraphale kept looking at him like he did when he fucked him; lustfully, lovingly, devotedly.

“That’s not quite answering the question,” Aziraphale murmured, but he seemed to let it slide. He looked critically at the both of them, trousers down, streaked and smeared and sticky, sprawled about on surfaces that had not been designed with their current use in mind. “I’ll just—” And he waved a hand, disappearing the mess, leaving Crowley a lot cleaner, a lot neater, but strangely feeling like he’d been denied something, an earthy, intense satisfaction that came somehow with the evidence of what they could bring out from each other.

Crowley shook the feeling off, and slid down from the island, arse just cold now from pressing bare against the marble table-top, and he buckled his jeans back up almost sheepishly. “Well,” he said, casting an eye on the now-clean, empty porcelain bowl left beside them, and the melting remnants of pistachio ice-cream still in the maker. “You’ve thoroughly spoiled your appetite for dinner, that’s for sure.”

“No matter,” Aziraphale said, and whatever oddness Crowley was feeling passed as Aziraphale looped his hands around Crowley’s waist, nudging his face into Crowley’s neck, burrowing with a soft, contented sound into the wisps of hair there, leaving Crowley feeling warmed by his simple tenderness. “I’ve had my fill.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to everyone for reading & commenting on previous parts. [come say hi on tumblr!](https://focusfixated.tumblr.com/)


End file.
